Two years ago, in July, that historic summer was almost unbearably hot.
It seems, looking back, as though the big baking city in those days was
meant to serve as an anteroom of torture--an inadequate bit of
preparation for the hell that was soon to break in the guise of the
Great War. About the soda-water bar in the drug store near the Hotel
Cecil many American tourists found solace in the sirups and creams of
home. Through the open windows of the Piccadilly tea shops you might
catch glimpses of the English consuming quarts of hot tea in order to
become cool. It is a paradox they swear by.
About nine o’clock on the morning of Friday, July twenty-fourth, in that
memorable year nineteen hundred and fourteen, Geoffrey West left his
apartments in Adelphi Terrace and set out for breakfast at the Carlton.
He had found the breakfast room of that dignified hotel the coolest
in London, and through some miracle, for the season had passed,
strawberries might still be had there. As he took his way through the
crowded Strand, surrounded on all sides by honest British faces wet
with honest British perspiration he thought longingly of his rooms in
Washington Square, New York. For West, despite the English sound of that
Geoffrey, was as American as Kansas, his native state, and only pressing
business was at that moment holding him in England, far from the country
that glowed unusually rosy because of its remoteness.
At the Carlton news stand West bought two morning papers--the Times
for study and the Mail for entertainment and then passed on into the
restaurant. His waiter--a tall soldierly Prussian, more blond than West
himself--saw him coming and, with a nod and a mechanical German smile,
set out for the plate of strawberries which he knew would be the first
thing desired by the American. West seated himself at his usual table
and, spreading out the Daily Mail, sought his favorite column. The first
item in that column brought a delighted smile to his face:
“The one who calls me Dearest is not genuine or they would write to me.”
Any one at all familiar with English journalism will recognize at once
what department it was that appealed most to West. During his three
weeks in London he had been following, with the keenest joy, the daily
grist of Personal Notices in the Mail. This string of intimate
messages, popularly known as the Agony Column, has long been an honored
institution in the English press. In the days of Sherlock Holmes it
was in the Times that it flourished, and many a criminal was tracked
to earth after he had inserted some alluring mysterious message in it.
Later the Telegraph gave it room; but, with the advent of halfpenny
journalism, the simple souls moved en masse to the Mail.
Tragedy and comedy mingle in the Agony Column. Erring ones are urged to
return for forgiveness; unwelcome suitors are warned that “Father has
warrant prepared; fly, Dearest One!” Loves that would shame by their
ardor Abelard and Heloise are frankly published--at ten cents a
word--for all the town to smile at. The gentleman in the brown derby
states with fervor that the blonde governess who got off the tram at
Shepherd’s Bush has quite won his heart. Will she permit his addresses?
Answer; this department. For three weeks West had found this sort of
thing delicious reading. Best of all, he could detect in these messages
nothing that was not open and innocent. At their worst they were merely
an effort to side-step old Lady Convention; this inclination was so
rare in the British, he felt it should be encouraged. Besides, he was
inordinately fond of mystery and romance, and these engaging twins
hovered always about that column.
So, while waiting for his strawberries, he smiled over the ungrammatical
outburst of the young lady who had come to doubt the genuineness of him
who called her Dearest. He passed on to the second item of the morning.
Spoke one whose heart had been completely conquered:
MY LADY sleeps. She of raven tresses. Corner seat from Victoria,
Wednesday night. Carried program. Gentleman answering inquiry desires
acquaintance. Reply here. --LE ROI.
West made a mental note to watch for the reply of raven tresses. The
next message proved to be one of Aye’s lyrics--now almost a daily
feature of the column:
DEAREST: Tender loving wishes to my dear one. Only to be with you now
and always. None “fairer in my eyes.” Your name is music to me. I
love you more than life itself, my own beautiful darling, my proud
sweetheart, my joy, my all! Jealous of everybody. Kiss your dear hands
for me. Love you only. Thine ever. --AYE.
Which, reflected West, was generous of Aye--at ten cents a word--and in
striking contrast to the penurious lover who wrote, farther along in the
column:
--loveu dearly; wantocu; longing; missu--
But those extremely personal notices ran not alone to love. Mystery,
too, was present, especially in the aquatic utterance:
DEFIANT MERMAID: Not mine. Alligators bitingu now. ‘Tis well; delighted.
--FIRST FISH.
And the rather sanguinary suggestion:
DE Box: First round; tooth gone. Finale. You will FORGET ME NOT.
At this point West’s strawberries arrived and even the Agony Column
could not hold his interest. When the last red berry was eaten he turned
back to read:
WATERLOO: Wed. 11:53 train. Lady who left in taxi and waved, care to
know gent, gray coat? --SINCERE.
Also the more dignified request put forward in:
GREAT CENTRAL: Gentleman who saw lady in bonnet 9 Monday morning in
Great Central Hotel lift would greatly value opportunity of obtaining
introduction.
This exhausted the joys of the Agony Column for the day, and West, like
the solid citizen he really was, took up the Times to discover what
might be the morning’s news. A great deal of space was given to the
appointment of a new principal for Dulwich College. The affairs of the
heart, in which that charming creature, Gabrielle Ray, was at the moment
involved, likewise claimed attention. And in a quite unimportant corner,
in a most unimportant manner, it was related that Austria had sent an
ultimatum to Serbia. West had read part way through this stupid little
piece of news, when suddenly the Thunderer and all its works became an
uninteresting blur.
A girl stood just inside the door of the Carlton breakfast room.
Yes; he should have pondered that despatch from Vienna. But such a girl!
It adds nothing at all to say that her hair was a dull sort of gold; her
eyes violet. Many girls have been similarly blessed. It was her manner;
the sweet way she looked with those violet eyes through a battalion of
head waiters and resplendent managers; her air of being at home here
in the Carlton or anywhere else that fate might drop her down.
Unquestionably she came from oversea--from the States.
She stepped forward into the restaurant. And now slipped also into
view, as part of the background for her, a middle-aged man, who wore the
conventional black of the statesman. He, too, bore the American label
unmistakably. Nearer and nearer to West she drew, and he saw that in her
hand she carried a copy of the Daily Mail.
West’s waiter was a master of the art of suggesting that no table in the
room was worth sitting at save that at which he held ready a chair. Thus
he lured the girl and her companion to repose not five feet from where
West sat. This accomplished, he whipped out his order book, and stood
with pencil poised, like a reporter in an American play.
“The strawberries are delicious,” he said in honeyed tones.
The man looked at the girl, a question in his eyes.
“Not for me, dad,” she said. “I hate them! Grapefruit, please.”
As the waiter hurried past, West hailed him. He spoke in loud defiant
tones.
“Another plate of the strawberries!” he commanded. “They are better than
ever to-day.”
For a second, as though he were part of the scenery, those violet eyes
met his with a casual impersonal glance. Then their owner slowly spread
out her own copy of the Mail.
“What’s the news?” asked the statesman, drinking deep from his glass of
water.
“Don’t ask me,” the girl answered, without looking up. “I’ve found
something more entertaining than news. Do you know--the English papers
run humorous columns! Only they aren’t called that. They’re called
Personal Notices. And such notices!” She leaned across the table.
“Listen to this: ‘Dearest: Tender loving wishes to my dear one. Only to
be with you now and always. None “fairer in my eyes.”--
The man looked uncomfortably about him. “Hush!” he pleaded. “It doesn’t
sound very nice to me.”
“Nice!” cried the girl. “Oh, but it is--quite nice. And so deliciously
open and aboveboard. ‘Your name is music to me. I love you more--’”
“What do we see to-day?” put in her father hastily.
“We’re going down to the City and have a look at the Temple. Thackeray
lived there once--and Oliver Goldsmith--”
“All right--the Temple it is.”
“Then the Tower of London. It’s full of the most romantic associations.
Especially the Bloody Tower, where those poor little princes were
murdered. Aren’t you thrilled?”
“I am if you say so.”
“You’re a dear! I promise not to tell the people back in Texas that you
showed any interest in kings and such--if you will show just a little.
Otherwise I’ll spread the awful news that you took off your hat when
King George went by.”
The statesman smiled. West felt that he, who had no business to, was
smiling with him.
The waiter returned, bringing grapefruit, and the strawberries West had
ordered. Without another look toward West, the girl put down her paper
and began her breakfasting. As often as he dared, however, West looked
at her. With patriotic pride he told himself: “Six months in Europe, and
the most beautiful thing I’ve seen comes from back home!”
When he rose reluctantly twenty minutes later his two compatriots were
still at table, discussing their plans for the day. As is usual in such
cases, the girl arranged, the man agreed.
With one last glance in her direction, West went out on the parched
pavement of Haymarket.
Slowly he walked back to his rooms. Work was waiting there for him;
but instead of getting down to it, he sat on the balcony of his study,
gazing out on the courtyard that had been his chief reason for selecting
those apartments. Here, in the heart of the city, was a bit of the
countryside transported--the green, trim, neatly tailored countryside
that is the most satisfying thing in England. There were walls on which
the ivy climbed high, narrow paths that ran between blooming beds of
flowers, and opposite his windows a seldom-opened, most romantic gate.
As he sat looking down he seemed to see there below him the girl of the
Carlton. Now she sat on the rustic bench; now she bent above the envious
flowers; now she stood at the gate that opened out to a hot sudden bit
of the city.
And as he watched her there in the garden she would never enter, as he
reflected unhappily that probably he would see her no more--the idea
came to him.
At first he put it from him as absurd, impossible. She was, to apply a
fine word much abused, a lady; he supposedly a gentleman. Their sort
did not do such things. If he yielded to this temptation she would be
shocked, angry, and from him would slip that one chance in a thousand he
had--the chance of meeting her somewhere, some day.
And yet--and yet--She, too, had found the Agony Column entertaining
and--quite nice. There was a twinkle in her eyes that bespoke a fondness
for romance. She was human, fun-loving--and, above all, the joy of youth
was in her heart.
Nonsense! West went inside and walked the floor. The idea was
preposterous. Still--he smiled--it was filled with amusing
possibilities. Too bad he must put it forever away and settle down to
this stupid work!
Forever away? Well--
On the next morning, which was Saturday, West did not breakfast at the
Carlton. The girl, however, did. As she and her father sat down the old
man said: “I see you’ve got your Daily Mail.”
“Of course!” she answered. “I couldn’t do without it. Grapefruit--yes.”
She began to read. Presently her cheeks flushed and she put the paper
down.
“What is it?” asked the Texas statesman.
“To-day,” she answered sternly, “you do the British Museum. You’ve put
it off long enough.”
The old man sighed. Fortunately he did not ask to see the Mail. If he
had, a quarter way down the column of personal notices he would have
been enraged--or perhaps only puzzled--to read:
CARLTON RESTAURANT: Nine A.M. Friday morning. Will the young woman who
preferred grapefruit to strawberries permit the young man who had two
plates of the latter to say he will not rest until he discovers some
mutual friend, that they may meet and laugh over this column together?
Lucky for the young man who liked strawberries that his nerve had failed
him and he was not present at the Carlton that morning! He would
have been quite overcome to see the stern uncompromising look on the
beautiful face of a lady at her grapefruit. So overcome, in fact, that
he would probably have left the room at once, and thus not seen the
mischievous smile that came in time to the lady’s face--not seen that
she soon picked up the paper again and read, with that smile, to the end
of the column.